Chandler
by Elisa
Summary: JD's first meeting with Heather Chandler even before Veronica.


Chandler  
By Elisa Higgins  
scarlett@li.net  
  
Ever wake up at night and wonder where the fuck you are?  
Happens to me all the time.   
Actually when it comes right down to it and you're there feeling around in the   
dark trying to figure out if it's Kansas or New York and if either have a   
different texture then say, Texas; you don't pay much attention when your hand   
tangles into a mess of corn silk hair.  
Until you suddenly realize:  
"Shit! Not only do I not know where I am, I have no idea who I'm fucking!"  
The unconsciousness wears off a bit as you stumble down the hall in search of   
the bathroom, because now you've realized that if you don't take a leak pretty   
soon you just might explode . . . So you whip out your favorite one-eyed monster   
(hoping that you're pissing in the toilet and not the kitchen sink) and commence   
upon the best relief nature can offer. It is only then that you begin to   
remember the events of the night . . .  
  
It was a red Ferrari.   
It screeched into the parking lot, jamming itself sideways into the handicapped   
space and she tumbled out, screaming her head off. I lit a cigarette and   
watched the look on the guy's face behind the wheel. Nothing she said meant a   
thing to him. He was older than she was, probably a lot dumber, but he had   
those typical college preppy good looks, and one simple flash of dimples   
probably had her sucking his dick in no time. Sure she would never confess to   
stooping that low just because he was in college and she wasn't, but it was   
scrawled in the high-pitched banshee tone of her voice.  
I felt sorry for her. It was a pathetically counterfeit existence that   
undoubtedly tormented her a lot more than she'd care to admit. Here was a woman   
allowing her very essence to be dragged through the cow shit that plastered   
every ounce of pavement around these parts, and for what? A college boyfriend?   
A red Ferrari? A rat race of popularity contests?  
I wondered if she was winning.  
The odor of cheap coffee wafted out of the Snappy Snack Shack behind me. I took   
a long drag on the cigarette and watched her in utter agony, alone with only one   
defense.  
"You stupid fuck!!!!" She screamed, throwing her handbag at the Ferrari. But   
that wasn't enough; she had to launch a full-fledged attack on the shiny red   
finish. I was all but convinced she would pry the metal away with her   
fingernails if she could. That's when Mr. Wonderful threw the car into reverse   
and pulled away. She lost her balance and stumbled forward, falling hard on her   
hands and knees.  
Torn nylons.  
Grated flesh.  
It had to have hurt.  
I heard her utter some sort of anguished forlorn cry before she returned to the   
reality of her surroundings. That's when the fear set in and she threw a   
horrified glance around the entire circumference of the area. The sexual   
perversities of her college beau took a sudden backseat to the notion that   
someone had seen her tirade. Her eyes fell on me, and in a sort of stifled   
horror she pulled herself to her feet. I could see the raw redness of her   
palms, could imagine the thin leaves of flesh scraped away, blood oozing with   
asphalt soot. Her knees were in no better condition.   
She looked like a rape victim.  
I blew smoke out my nose and watched as she limped quickly towards the   
convenience store. She glared my way as she yanked the door open and rushed   
inside. I finished my cigarette and threw the butt on the ground. For a moment   
I actually thought to start my bike and ride away. But the devil invented   
temptation for guys like me.  
So I relinquished Plan A and entered the Shack.  
I found her in the back of the store, pulling angrily at the door to the ladies   
room. It was locked and I could tell from a very lovely string of profanities   
that her last intention was to request the key from the guy behind the counter.   
Evidently she was someone in this small shit town, and didn't want her   
reputation as soiled as her red dress. She dared not show her face to even the   
lowliest of Ohio serfs.  
I watched her for a few minutes, her high heels in her hands, her blonde hair   
cascading thickly into her determined face. She was attractive, in an ice-  
princess kind of way, delicate and hard at the same time. Her skin smooth and   
alabaster white, her lips as red as the blood ribboning down her leg. She gave   
up on the ladies room and just stood there with her head against the door   
staring at the filthy tiles beneath her nylon-sheathed feet.  
Time for introductions.  
"Need some help?"  
My voice frightened her, she jumped and her cold gaze locked with mine. I could   
see all of her defenses rise like the hair on the back of a cat.  
"Get lost creep," she blistered.  
I smiled.   
"Just looks like you could use some," I said nonchalantly, filling a Styrofoam   
cup with soda.  
I felt her scrutiny, knew she was trying to judge just what kind of a predator I   
was. I snapped a plastic top over my soda and glanced over her chiseled face.  
"I could get you the key if you want," I offered, "Seeing as how you're in no   
condition to get it yourself."  
To tell you the truth, something about her fascinated me. I knew what façade   
she wanted to wear. She fancied herself on a pedestal; she had everyone   
convinced she was untouchable. But that truly was not the case. Perhaps her   
immediate peers believed that--I had yet to find out--but Corey Haim out there   
saw her as nothing more than a sperm bank in a red dress.   
Poor little girl lost.  
My specialty actually.  
She frowned.  
"Or not," I shrugged, turning around and starting towards the checkout.  
It took her a moment before she folded. At least I was a stranger that had not   
yet been versed in the social hierarchies of Ohio life.   
"Alright," she growled, as if she were doing me the favor. "Get me the key."  
I made no attempt to acknowledge her forfeit as I slapped my soda down at the   
counter; the guy rang me up. I could almost feel Ruby-Red seething behind the   
isle of Twinkies and other assorted animal by-products; wondering in vain if the   
window of opportunity had closed and I wasn't going to help her after all.  
I reveled in her anxiety for a moment and caught a glimpse of her blue eyes   
peering through Hostess cakes.   
"Can I get the restroom key?" I asked casually, meeting her gaze and handing the   
guy a dollar.   
He tossed the key on the counter. I snatched it up and circled around back to   
where the Ice Princess stood. Something almost shameful moved in her face as I   
approached, drinking in every raw abrasion. I got the impression she was   
shrinking before me, cowering and naked. But it was only an impression, and her   
anger quickly melted over it.  
She hesitated, waiting for some remark, for some sign of male dominance on my   
part.   
But I said nothing.  
Instead I just dangled the key in front of her as an offering. She seized it   
from my hands and shoved it harshly into the lock.  
"You're welcome," I muttered as she slammed the door behind her.  
I heard the clatter of high-heeled shoes dropping against linoleum tiles   
followed abruptly by the harsh flow of water. Part of me longed for the kind of   
omniscience that only God has. I wanted to watch her strip away the sinews of   
that icy exterior. I wanted to see her cry and reveal beneath the crimson gore   
a soul that wanted nothing more than to escape the prison it had created for   
itself.  
But maybe I was being too generous by allotting her more depth than she actually   
had. Her private hell was her own; she had forged it herself like some   
character out of a Dickens novel.   
He who draws his own blood deserves to bleed.   
My soda and I left the convenience store, but I couldn't bring myself to take   
off. So I straddled my bike and lit another butt. Curiosity bade me to wait for   
her. I'm sure she anticipated that I would hang around, like some lecherous John   
who expected a blowjob for his efforts.   
Shit like that was for the feeble minded.  
A carload of high school jocks pulled up.  
'Speak of the Devil,' I thought, smiling as they toppled out of their ride   
hooting and hollering, ready to whack off at the sound of their own male voices   
hitting the baritones of puberty. There was not a doubt in my mind that my   
lovely Ice Princess knew these devotees of sex and steroids. There was not a   
doubt in my mind that she would do everything in her power to avoid them.  
They carried on loudly into the store, and not two minutes later she emerged   
from the back exit. Her eyes riveted to the dulled windowpane that reeked of   
Windex. She tiptoed like a cat burglar, and at any moment I expected her to   
take off running barefoot into the darkness.  
But she stopped when she saw me.  
I met her eyes and a steady stream of smoke danced from my mouth.   
Her pride stitched her lips together; she was not going to ask me. So I started   
the bike, revving the thick engine that pulsed between my legs. I kicked up the   
stand ready to leave. Her arms were around me then, clutching my chest, pleading   
with me to take her away.  
  
* * *  
  
The wind ripped against us. A heavy darkness had settled over the sprawling   
pastures and dense thickets as a silhouette of trees whizzed past lit only by   
the single bright eye of my Harley. My companion was not used to the fierce   
independence of the motorcycle. At every bend in the road I felt her tense   
behind me, pressing her head firmly between my shoulder blades, clutching her   
arms tightly around my front. But gradually she got used to the motions, to the   
sway of the bike, and her security solidified somewhat. She leaned her body into   
mine and tilted her face into the rushing air, as if she could escape right then   
and there.  
"Where to?"  
I threw the question over my shoulder and let the wind take my voice to her.  
I felt her lips brush my ear.  
"Your place."  
I slowed for a red light and set my foot down on the asphalt.  
"You don't want me to take you home?" I asked, scanning the dark path before us.  
She kept her legs wrapped around the Harley, her bare knees bent against my   
hips.  
"Not like this," she replied, snobbish, as if it were common sense that she   
couldn't cross the threshold of home without her precious halo of invincibility.   
She had no safe haven, no realm of understanding. So she wanted to go to mine.  
My curiosity still piqued, I complied.  
  
* * *  
  
My father was asleep on the couch, his head thrown back, mouth agape. When he   
snored I was convinced that he robbed the room of every breath of air. And yet   
simultaneously I heard his voice filtering out of the pale lighting of the TV:  
"Bringing every state, to a higher state; Big Bud Dean Construction."  
Another commercial.  
My Ice Princess grinned catlike with recognition and tossed a glance at the   
cathedral ceiling that arched above our heads.  
"Hmm," she observed, "You're pretty wealthy aren't you."  
I grinned in the darkness and shut the TV.  
"Filthy," I replied.  
She was impressed, following me through a glass-domed solarium littered with   
boxes, and into the kitchen that sprawled across a hard wood floor like the back   
of some gourmet bistro.  
"And you just moved in."   
She was soaking it all up with the renewed confidence that I had no idea who she   
was. She was safe in her mode of anonymity, it didn't matter that she didn't   
know me from a hole in the wall. I flipped on the lights, expensive copper   
things that dangled from the oak rafters by thick chains.  
"There's no such thing as moving in, only moving out." I quipped, turning to   
her. She smiled coyly. There was something ulterior lurking beneath those lush   
ruby lips. I drank her in, her slinky red dress hugging every curve of her body,   
her long alabaster legs streaked with rusted blood, the smear of ashen soot   
across her porcelain cheek. Apparently the jocks didn't leave her enough time   
to clean up.  
"So your last name is Dean, what's you first?" She was a hit-and-run victim   
trying to be clever.  
I grinned.  
"Of course, you're welcome to clean up if you'd like," I offered.  
She studied me through long lashes, waiting for me to answer her question. I met   
her gaze and withheld the answer. She gave a small laugh and sauntered over to   
the kitchen sink, swiping a white dishtowel from the counter. I leaned against   
the cooking island in the middle of the room and watch as she sniffed the   
Egyptian cotton to make sure it wasn't encrusted with all sorts of dinner   
leftovers. Satisfied it was clean she ran it under the lukewarm water, and began   
to wash her legs with it.  
"So where did you move here from?"  
I snickered, "You mean directly? Or originally?"  
She glanced up at me, drawing the wet towel up her thigh.  
"Directly," she purred.  
"Vegas."  
She raised her eyebrows-"Quite a change," she laughed, "You must be used to the   
fast life."  
"Well, you know what they say," I quipped, "Leave a good-looking corpse."  
I watched her hesitate, drinking it all in, assessing everything about me. That   
coy look of seduction never left her face.  
"Okay, then, originally." She spoke like an amused cat.  
"Originally," I circled around the kitchen island, "I was born in New York,   
Manhattan."  
"Hmmm, city boy," she slipped her hands under her dress, and started to pull   
down her torn nylons, rolling them over the smooth creamy flesh of her legs.  
"You poor thing, dragged all the way out to cow country."  
She dropped the nylons on the ground as though they were the handkerchief the   
Lady's knight was to retrieve. I smiled and approached her. She licked some of   
the red off her lips and slid her hands under the lapel of my trench coat,   
pulling me closer by the collar.  
"You must be so bored."  
I raised my eyebrows as her lips closed over mine, hot and sweet. Her tongue   
probed the inside of my mouth, as she sucked harder, pulling me closer against   
her body. The soft little sounds erupting from her throat reminded me of those   
celluloid women in skin flicks, and I decided that it was going to be a very   
interesting night.  
  
* * *   
  
So there you have it--the gist anyway.   
I gave the one-eyed monster a couple of shakes and flushed the toilet.   
Screwing on the kitchen counter was as fun as it sounds, how we made it to the   
bedroom is beyond me. Perhaps it had something to do with the bottle of bourbon   
I broke out to add some flavor to her skin? I supposed we indulged too much in   
that little amber-colored elixir--which left us both passed out, naked and   
tangled in sweaty sheets. Pretty good second night in Ohio, if I do say so   
myself.  
I pulled a paper cup out of the dispenser, amused that my father had no time to   
unpack his clothes, but found time to load the cup dispenser, and got some water   
for my extremely dry throat. Then, my eyes finally adjusting to the darkness, I   
turned and headed back to my current bedroom.  
I got there only find that my Ice Princess had turned on the light and was   
getting dressed at 3 in the morning.   
"Going somewhere?" I asked, sipping the water.  
She turned and looked me up and down. Every ounce of her porn-star passion was   
gone, and instead there was the girl I had met at the convenience store, cold   
and defensive.  
"We're done here, aren't we?" She stated, as though I were her inferior all of   
a sudden.  
"Excuse me?" I gave the attitude right back to her.  
She glared at me in that snobbish way of hers, and pushed back her permed blond   
hair.  
"Let me put this as simply as possible."  
I waited, annoyed, this distant feeling that I had been played suddenly washing   
over me.   
"You are enrolled at Westerburg right?"  
"I assume so," I replied, my eyes narrowing.  
"And I have a reputation at Westerburg."  
"So I gather."  
She smiled.  
"We fucked, so now you won't say anything about tonight, right?"  
I pondered this for a moment. Part of me actually had to hand it to her, a   
flash of thigh and she had pulled the lid over my eyes. Here I was, probing her   
depths for some sign of humanity, ready to exhaust what little pity I had on   
her, and all the while this had been her plan. She had pawned herself to me for   
my silence regarding everything I had witnessed. Her precious reputation, her   
red robe and crown of ice--nothing else mattered after all.  
I grinned.  
"And if we don't have a deal?"  
This evil little smile played over her lips, now rubbed free of their ruby   
coloring.  
"Then I will make your life a living Hell."  
I raised my eyebrows and laughed.  
The social power of the Prima Donna. I had seen it a million times.  
"Of course," I scoffed, "I suppose you'll have every jock in school waiting to   
pound my ass."  
She grinned like the queen she believed herself to be.  
Silence passed between us for a moment.  
"I bet you'll be wanting a ride home then, hmm?" I mused aloud.  
"Part of the deal." She said it with such a natural icy inflection.  
Her eyes fell to the cup in my hand.  
"And I'm thirsty."  
I was waiting for her to add the word 'slave' to the sentence.  
I looked down at my water and grinned.  
"Your majesty," I sneered sarcastically, and handed her the cup.  
  
"Chandler"  
By Elisa Higgins  
scarlet@li.net  



End file.
